On Death and Dying
by Eeveebeth Fejvu
Summary: The five stages in which people cope with death are startlingly similar to the five stages in which people cope with love. KidLiz.
1. Denial

Dedication: To my former psychology professor, Dr. Cusato, for inspiring me with the concepts behind this story and strengthening my inherent fascination with the human mind. And to all of my fellow fans of Liz, KidLiz, and Troika, because you guys are awesome.

Disclaimer: I do not own Atsushi Ohkubo's manga or Elisabeth Kübler-Ross' research. Or, apparently, my own name. It's a good thing I don't mind sharing it, then.

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><p><em><strong>On Death and Dying<strong>_

By Eeveebeth Fejvu

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><p>"Have we… been killed by this <em>shinigami?<em>"

- Liz Thompson, Chapter 78, _Soul Eater_

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><p><strong>Denial<strong>

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><p>"<em>Denial functions as a buffer after unexpected shocking news, allows the patient to collect himself and, with time, mobilize other, less radical defenses… The patient's first reaction may be a temporary state of shock from which he recuperates gradually. When his initial feeling of numbness begins to disappear and he can collect himself again, man's usual response is 'No, it cannot be me.'" - <em>_Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, __On Death and Dying_

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><p>Liz Thompson leans back against the rough brick of the wall and stares hard at the homeless man through icy blue eyes.<p>

Sitting in a slouch against the opposite wall, he leans precariously to his left, propped up by the rounded side of an overturned metal trash can. White padding pokes through rips in his oversized polyester coat, and his jeans are ashy gray from grime. The toe of his right sneaker is so worn through that Liz can clearly see the threadbare cotton sock underneath. His shaggy brown hair has not been washed in weeks, his wiry beard trimmed in months. The aviator glasses shielding his eyes from her gaze are crooked; the jaw underneath is slack, revealing stained, ochre teeth. He is silent and still.

Liz raises her cigarette to her lips and estimates that he has been dead for at least three days.

Hypothermia or starvation. It is either one or the other, she thinks, because if it is not a bullet to the head or a knife to the throat here on the lethal streets of New York City – and she sees no obvious sign of violence on his person – then it is the persistent cold or the unappeasable hunger. She cocks her head. He seems thinner than she remembers him, though it is hard to tell beneath the bulky coat. His cheekbones are, perhaps, a little more prominent, the pockmarked skin beneath them sunken in, and each knobbed joint of the hand that rests on his thigh is visible and distinct. He shouldn't have died from starvation, though, Liz reasons; he had money he could have used for food – even if all he had was the money he owed her.

Two nights ago, the temperature had unexpectedly dropped all of the way into the lower teens, and even _she_ had struggled to keep her sister and herself warm; eventually, she had broken down and gotten them a single bed to share in a rundown youth hostel. She remembers that night, the sluggish sensation she felt within her bones as the cold set in, and bobs her head slightly. That would do it.

There is a rhythmic clatter against the pavement, and Liz blows out a steady stream of smoke as Patty rounds the corner into the alley and barrels into her. The younger girl flings her arms around her sister's lean stomach, clenching onto her like a vice and burying her nose into the soft, fragile skin of Liz's neck. She feels a sudden warmth blaze to life in her chest, a tingling within her very soul, as Patty flips her sunshine yellow hair back with a laugh. But Liz remains against the wall, mouth a tight line and eyes trained intently on the dead man. In her peripheral vision, she watches Patty gaze up at her with puppy-like curiosity before noticing their motionless company. The younger girl's sky-blue eyes widen and her rosy lips form a long oval of surprise, and for one moment, she stays that way. Then, she giggles.

"Heya, Sis, what's he doing on the ground with the trash?" Patty asks in a bright, almost mischievous voice. "Sleepin'? Doesn't look like a comfortable place for a nap to me, hee hee!"

Liz jams the cigarette back between her teeth, almost fumbling it as her hand finally begins to shake. _If only_, she thinks; _if only he was sleeping. _

This is not the first deceased person Liz has ever seen, not by a long shot. In fact, Liz cannot recall her first experience seeing a dead body, and the only image she can bring to mind that might mark this event is faint and blurry and may just as likely have come from the movies or television as from real life. But she has seen death before, death in the flesh, and she knows what to expect. No matter what the cause of death or sort of person they are – man, woman, or innocent child – the bodies left behind all seem very much the same.

Pale. Still. Silent. Cold.

And yet, every time she encounters death anew, there is still a sense of shock. A sudden intake of breath, an involuntary raising of the eyebrows, a jolt of terrible recognition that twists like a venomous snake in the pit of her stomach. She doesn't know why death still seems to have this ability to astonish her, but it does.

Liz likes to think she can mask the automatic response by now, and thinks she's handled the surprise of this particular man's death with a decent cover of indifference, though she's never quite sure if Patty is convinced or not. But the reaction still comes. It doesn't even seem to matter if she knows the death is imminent or not; her response is the same.

The instinctual recoil. The innate revulsion.

The complete and indisputable rejection.

With a weary grunt, Liz heaves herself away from the wall. She starts to herd her sister out of the shadow of the alleyway, back into the flickering light of the autumn sun, but her sister is no longer beside her. Patty trots fearlessly across the short space, boots clicking musically with each step, to poke the homeless man on the shoulder with a single, outstretched finger. When the body shifts slightly against the garbage can, Liz nearly screams. The cigarette drops out of her mouth, but the vocal expression of utter terror catches in her throat, and she flinches silently instead. The man's head lolls a bit, back and forth, under Patty's provocation, causing the aviator glasses to slip a few centimeters down his nose. And when they do, Liz is staring straight into his red-rimmed eyes and is suddenly by her sister's side, her hand clinging desperately to Patty's wrist. She pulls her away even as the younger girl giggles at the body's ridiculous, pendulous motion.

"Stay back, Patty!" Liz commands. Her tone comes out harsher than she intended it to be. Patty, however, doesn't seem to be fazed by this.

"What's wrong, Sis? S'not like he can hurt me or anything," Patty counters, with cheerful matter-of-factness. "Besides, doncha want the money he owed us? That's why we came. He probably's got it on him somewhere, eh?"

"Fine, fine," Liz mutters quickly, trying to sweep her sister behind herself with an outstretched arm. "I'll get it. Just... stay back."

Patty laughs, but relents. "Okie-dokie, artichokie!"

Though Liz can feel an acrid burn building up in her throat, she forces herself to kneel in front of the body. She places one palm against the pavement to support herself, but the small, soft hand Patty lays unthinkingly on her shoulder is somehow an even greater support. She can feel the vibration - the tingling quiver of their connected souls - in this simple touch, even through her shirt and fur-rimmed jacket. Liz takes a steadying breath, and begins to explore the dead man's pockets with her free hand. To keep her mind off her task, and to keep the rising bile down, she tries to focus most of her attention on the warm, humming reverberations between her and Patty's souls. Hazily, her fingers flit through the front pockets of the man's polyester coat, and slide across the flattened front pockets of his jeans. All empty, save for a broken toothpick and some pieces of lint. Loathed to poke around the jeans' back pockets, she avoids the task by delicately pushing aside the left flap of the coat to check the inner pocket, and, fortunately, hits pay dirt.

From the inner pocket, she retrieves a dog-eared photograph, a small plastic bag, and a wad of cash.

Liz immediately retreats back to the far alley wall, away from the body, prizes in hand. Patty hooks her arm playfully around her sister's as they examine the objects one by one.

The money is folded in half, secured by a thick rubber band, and Liz doesn't even have to skim through all of the bills to know that what he was bringing them wouldn't even cover half the debt he owed them. Liz feels a flicker of annoyance at this, and thinks indignantly to herself, _who does he think he is, that he could pull a fast one on the Demons of Brooklyn and get away with it scot-free? _But she quickly remembers that he can no longer think at all, much less cheat them out of their money, and the annoyance immediately dissipates.

The plastic bag, no bigger than a golf ball, is petite and harmless-looking as it sits in her palm, but it is packed with a pure white powder that Liz is sure she knows the identity of. She doesn't untie the knot in the plastic to check, however, tucking it away in the pocket of her own coat out of the reach of Patty's curious, grasping fingers. It could have been the drugs, Liz realizes suddenly, and not the cold that led to his demise. Somehow, she had overlooked this cause of death in her analysis, though she has seen, in person, such innocent powders work their lethal magic before. They can be as deadly as anything else. As an afterthought, the cigarette still smoldering by her foot is discretely ground into dust with her heel.

And then Liz holds up the photograph, tilting it to catch the light. It is one of the small kind Liz has seen before, tucked in a plastic flip-book in the wallet of some pick-pocketed victim, a posed photo from a paid photographer with fancy lighting and a monochrome, marbled backdrop. The picture has seen better days, with its bent corner and embedded flecks of grime, but the smile on the face of the girl in the photo shines brilliantly through the cloudy film. Liz swallows as her throat tightens. She can't begin to guess how old the photograph is, so she can't tell if this girl – in her late teens, early twenties at the most – is his sister, an old crush from high school, a long-gone girlfriend, a youthful portrait of a lost wife, or even a recent photo of a daughter whose custody has long been beyond his grasp. There might be some resemblance to him in the face, Liz thinks, but the blonde hair and blue eyes are distracting and only remind her of someone else. Liz shuts her eyes.

_Whoever she is, he must have loved her,_ Liz thinks. _Whatever low things he might have done to survive, in his soul, he was a decent man._

_So why did he have to die?_

Her eyes shoot open, and Liz flings the photograph away from her, into the depths of the alley. Patty whines her disappointment, not yet finished with her examination, but Liz can no longer stand to look at that smiling girl, whose real-life counterpart must still be innocent of the man's death, if she is even alive herself.

Instead, Liz grips Patty hard, pulling her sister into the vice-like embrace she hadn't returned before.

She knows - in an intellectual way - why he had to die. And yet, even though she tries to block it from her mind, it's all she can think about.

_Because everyone has to die sometime._

She breathes in sharply, nose buried in Patty's soft hair, and feels the agonized, poisonous twist in her stomach.

_No, _she thinks, suddenly feeling rebellious. She feels her head begin to shake slowly, back and forth, as she recoils from the pain. _Others may die, but..._

_Not me. _

_And not Patty._

Death is pale, still, silent, and cold: a foreign, moonless, never-ending night. Liz cannot imagine Patty dead, even if she _allowed_ herself to imagine such a thing. Death is so much the complete opposite of her sister that such an image would be incomprehensible, perfectly impossible. Not when Patty is all bright rosy cheeks and gleaming yellow hair, all constant animation and boundless laughter, all tingling vibrations and familiar sunshine warmth and oh-so full of _life_.

Patty's arms come up to wrap around Liz curiously, and Liz can feel that their heartbeats are just as synchronized as their souls. And she knows that, if she ever allowed that other heart to fail, her own could hardly be expected to go on itself.

Patty is her reason to live. If Liz did not live, there would be no one to keep Patty safe and happy, so she knows she must keep on living. This has always been the way it is, and Liz is repulsed by the idea that there might be someone else out there in the world that could make her feel this way. Patty is her reason to live, and she is also the reason why Liz will never allow herself to die, never allow death to touch either one of them. She will protect her sister from the horror of death, pushing it forever away with all of her mind, body, and soul. To do otherwise would be irresponsible.

Liz feels a pounding sense of resolve welling up in her chest. Despite the constant dangers of their unsheltered life and the macabre nightmares that plague her mind almost every night, she is determined to make herself and Patty impervious to death. _We are the Demons of Brooklyn_, she tells herself, pulling back to gaze into the sky-blue pools of Patty's eyes. _Just as we have conquered our borough, we will conquer death as well. I mean, if you can get a place like this under your thumb, who's to say you can't master death as well? ...Huh. That's a good title, isn't it? _

_The Thompson Sisters, Masters of Death. _

Smiling shakily at her sister, Liz wraps an arm around Patty's shoulders. "C'mon, let's get out of here. We aren't gonna get anything else from _him_." She avoids looking at the dead man again, even though Patty glances once more at him and laughs.

With a one-armed hug, Liz shepherds her sister out into the golden light, her back firmly turned to the alley, rejecting the cold, silent dark.


	2. Anger

**Anger**

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><p>"<em>When the first stage of denial cannot be maintained any longer, it is replaced by feelings of anger, rage, envy, and resentment. The logical next question becomes: 'Why me?' …This anger is displaced in all directions and projected onto the environment at times almost at random." – Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, <em>_On Death and Dying_

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><p>Death is exactly what Liz always imagined Death would be.<p>

Pale. Still. Silent. Cold.

Unfortunately, Death also happens to be filthy rich, sophisticated, considerate, and – somehow – devastatingly handsome...

Death the Kid, that is.

Liz wiggles deeper into the plush grey armchair, scowling unreservedly at the young Grim Reaper over the top of her _Cosmopolitan. _She switches her crossed legs from right to left and flips to the next page in her magazine. The noises these minor actions create, however, hardly disturb the silence of the room - one of the many sitting rooms in Gallows Manor – and seem to make no impression on him. Liz narrows her eyes and risks a light, feigned cough. Nothing. He continues to sit, stiff and upright, exactly in the middle of the middle cushion on the grey couch across from her, both shoes planted firmly on the floor, head down as he pours over the old tome open in the center of his lap.

Liz just can't see how a book like that – some obscure psychopompic text he had acquired from his father - could possibly be so riveting, so fascinating to study.

Kid himself, however, is a different story.

Not for the first time, Liz runs her gaze across his body, taking in the pallid skin, the jarring two-toned hair, the crisply ironed suit, silver rings, and skull-shaped tie. Nothing about him really fits with her traditional definition of "male hotness" – tall, muscular, tan, with short, spiky hair and dazzling dark eyes, a brilliant smile absolutely dripping in virile self-confidence – but she knows _that_ definition was born from all the movies and commercials and advertisements she has seen throughout her life. She wonders now if her own opinions have previously been skewed by these things, if her true preferences have only recently come to light thanks to Kid.

He is short, quite a bit shorter than herself, which Liz thinks should really be a turn-off in a guy except for the fact that his smaller stature is somehow easy to forget, is almost unnoticeable really, until she finds herself standing next to him and unexpectedly having to look _down_ to see his face. She chalks this up to the fact that Kid's about as skinny as a stick, which naturally creates an illusion of increased height. He's not visibly muscular, though she knows, beneath the tailored attire, his body is toned and slender and sleek, in a somehow natural, un-worked-for sort of way. There is a sense of fragility to his body, she thinks, but it is unaccompanied by any sense of feebleness or weakness. Perhaps something vaguely feminine, but Liz frowns at this thought, because it doesn't feel exactly right. He is undoubtedly male, but somehow possesses the sort of attractiveness that Liz normally associates only with girls.

_He is beautiful_, she decides. _Beautiful in a masculine way._

The clothes help, of course. She hadn't realized it about herself before, but apparently there _is_ something about the sophistication of a sharp-dressed man that immediately attracts her attention. Far from looking out of place, the white button-down shirt, black blazer, and black dress pants – fitted to his exact proportions – only serve to complement and enhance his innate beauty. That is not to say, Liz thinks wryly, that there is nothing strange about his customized suit, but its oddities – skull-shaped tie included – are somehow consistent with the bizarre nature of Death City and are, therefore, not really strange at all.

But speaking of oddities… Liz drags her eyes away from the antique silver rings on his delicate fingers up to his smooth, round face. It is the face of a child, Liz perceives, though she perceives this with a sense of squirming discomfort, considering the way she knows she is looking at him. The expressions that cross Kid's face most often, however, are so mature in nature that this childish quality – like his stature – is also easy to forget. As he gazes intently upon the text in his lap, Liz watches his thin, sculpted eyebrows angle downward in concentration over his narrowed eyes. Those golden eyes Liz finds both bizarre and fascinating. She has never seen anything quite like them before; the best comparison she can make is to the endless, shimmering depths of a cat's reflective eyes. Kid's eyes are distinctly ringed, dark caramel encircled by heavy saffron, infinite and capable of peering – quite literally – straight into a person's soul. They stand out clearly against his grisaille color palette, particularly his skin, soft and flawless but so washed-out and ashen as to almost appear wan.

And, of course, Liz thinks with the hint of a smirk disrupting her frown, there is his hair. Neatly trimmed and well-tamed, to be sure, but absolutely impossible in its coloring. She can effortlessly accept the glossy blackness as alluring, but has no idea whatsoever about what she should think of the three, precise, white horizontal half-stripes that somehow crown his head. She already knows what Kid thinks about this distinguishing feature – and it is nothing complementary – but decides, at this moment, that she finds them understandably mysterious and, therefore, intriguing in their own puzzling sort of way.

As Kid breaks his pose to silently turn the page in his book, Liz realizes that she has lowered both her mental and physical defenses, and with a sudden grimace, raises her magazine back up to her face with an overly dramatic rustle. She continues to peer at him over the slick pages, however, and is annoyed when this disturbance, like the one before it, fails to garner a response.

Overwhelmingly attractive or not, Liz thinks viciously to herself, he is still _Death_ before he is anything else. Still foreign. Still remote. Still _lethal_. And she would be wise, Liz stresses to her own mind, not to forget this fact, either; no matter how much of a merciful savior he has been to her and Patty in these few months since they have moved in with him.

A muffled thumping from the staircase down the hall heralds, as such thumping always does, her sister's approach, but Kid's head remains bent over his text. Liz hears the younger girl clattering towards them down the corridor, but Kid doesn't react at all until the door behind him abruptly flies open and slams with a loud _bang,_ like a gunshot, against the interior wall of the room.

Liz doesn't bother to suppress her wicked grin as Kid gasps and comes halfway off the couch in utter surprise, whirling around to the doorway as the book falls off his lap.

"Sis! Kid!" Patty cries out, delighted, lowering her upraised boot to the floor. Her face is flushed and she breathes heavily in exertion. She spreads her bare arms out wide. "I finally found you guys! I've been looking _forever!_"

"_Patricia!_" Kid shrieks in horrified dismay, "What are you- Why- Did you just _kick the door in?_"

"I got lost!" Patty explains helpfully. "This place is _super_ big, and's gots lots of rooms that all look alike! …Just like the Met back home, right, Sissy?"

"Sure is, Patty," Liz dryly agrees. With a carefully crafted expression of aloofness, she watches the distraught Grim Reaper whip his head back and forth between the two girls, unsure of whom and what issue he should address next. Ultimately, he turns back to the grinning intruder.

"Now, listen… No, no, no, listen to me, Patricia," Kid starts, in what Liz is sure is meant to be a stern tone. His anxiety, however, grants an edge of higher-pitched squeakiness to his voice that is somehow both grating and cute. "Every room in this wing of the Manor is open to you, and to your sister, so there is no need to use such… _unorthodox_ _force_ in gaining entrance to–"

"Unortha-what?" Patty asks, cocking her head and giggling.

"_Unorthodox_… It is not necessary for you to kick open any doors, when I have made sure that all the doorknobs in this house work perfectly. Besides, kicking only leads to dents and scuffs in the wood and that… _Is that a scratch in the paint?"_ Liz watches Kid's golden eyes grow wide in terror as he stares intently at the abused door. Liz spares the door a glance herself, but is unable to pick out whatever nonexistent flaw he has somehow singled out.

Before Kid can make a move, however, Patty skips closer and vaults carelessly over the back of the couch. She bounces happily onto the grey cushion beside him, sunshine hair swishing around her face, white tie askew. She is a study in brilliant primaries – red, yellow, blue – against his tedious monochrome, and Liz feels the entire sitting room warm and brighten in her sister's presence.

"Whatcha reading, Kiddo?" Patty questions abruptly, looking down at the crumpled tome on the floor. Dazed confusion washes over the boy's face, and he glances hastily from the door to the book, then to Patty, and back again.

"Well," Kid begins distractedly, "It concerns the, uh… transfer of souls from… the mortal plane to… Excuse me, please, I need to go check and make sure that-"

"Will _you_ read a book to me?" Patty interrupts, grabbing his arm in both hands as Kid attempts to both retrieve his text and head towards the door in the same movement. With a violent tug, Patty slams him back into his seat. Kid finally focuses on her, startled. "I wanna hear a story! About outer space! No, about the wild animals, like the ones at the zoo! No, about princesses! I wanna hear the story about _Cinderella!"_

"Patty, I'll read a story to you," Liz interrupts quickly. She stares at her sister's small hands, clenched so casually around Kid's blazer sleeve, and feels something tighten inside her chest. It is not a good feeling.

"I know!" Patty says, "But I want _Kid_ to read it to me! Please, please, please, Kid!" She yanks at his arm with each "please," bouncing up and down on the cushion until her breasts are swaying with the motion.

"Certainly," Kid murmurs, attempting to look around her at the supposed scratch in the paint. "I would be more than happy to read aloud to you any literature of your choice, but first just let me-"

"Yay! Thankies, Kiddo! You're the best!" Patty exclaims. In her excitement, she slams her cheek into his bony shoulder and hugs his arm tightly to her chest, her cowboy hat tipping backwards off her head onto the couch. Kid jerks back in the sudden embrace. His forehead creases and his jaw slackens in bewilderment, but Liz suddenly doesn't think this counts for much.

She feels the frown on her face deepen, her own forehead wrinkle unpleasantly. _She_ has always been the one to read stories to Patty, to dig up clothes for her and shelter her and feed her, to comfort her and bandage up her wounds and sing her to sleep at night. Ever since they moved into Gallows Manor, however, Liz has watched helplessly as Patty asks less and less of her "Big Sis," directing more and more of her old demands towards their new meister. The enormous mansion, the pristine clothes, the rich food, and the ceaseless stream of toys and treats for Patty, she can understand. After all, Liz thinks ominously, the material wealth Kid offered them in exchange for their partnership is why she agreed - against all common sense - to come with the young Grim Reaper in the first place. Liz had even made sure Patty was well aware of her scheme ahead of time, too.

So _why_, Liz wonders as the magazine begins to crinkle in her tightening grasp, does Patty additionally feel the need to ask him for his time and attention? To ask him to play board games with her, to watch cartoons with her, to tuck her into her four-poster bed at night, to snuggle up next to her as he reads her some… _damn fairy tale…!_

Liz closes her eyes.

_All I ever wanted was for Patty to be safe and happy. And now that she is, why do I feel so... bitter?_

"This… This…" Liz hears Kid choke out, tone clearly strained, "This is not _symmetrical_ at all, Patricia!" Liz gives an involuntary, contemptuous snort. Already, she has become tired of hearing the word "symmetry" and its derivatives, though she is also well aware it will hardly disappear from his vocabulary any time soon. "You can't hold on to just one of my arms and not the other!" Kid continues imperiously. "It's not balanced! Fix this right now!"

Patty begins to laugh uncontrollably into his shoulder.

"_Elizabeth!_" At the sound of her name, Liz's eyes snap open automatically to find Kid's golden, ringed eyes fastened inexorably on her own deep blue ones. "Get over here and help your sister!"

Liz gapes at him blankly. "…What?"

Kid extends his free hand out to her with an air of military command, silver ring glinting in the light of the overhead chandelier. Liz is unable to stop her gaze from running across his skin up to his thin wrist, his long fingers luring her to him with an inviting gesture. The white cuff of his dress shirt, pinned together with a tiny skull-shaped cufflink, prevents her eyes from wandering on up to his pale forearm, so Liz looks back up at his face, throat turned dry.

"Hold onto me!" Kid instructs. Liz feels her cheeks begin to heat up before the sensation is abruptly crushed by Kid shaking his reaching hand briskly. "If you hold onto _this_ arm, then I will at least be somewhat symmetrical again!" Patty's laughter escalates as Liz catches her sister's sky-blue eye, sparkling in mischief.

"_Hell no!_" Liz spits back at Kid impulsively. She feels her mouth pull back into an aggressive sneer as she jumps up from her armchair. She rolls her crumpled magazine into a cylinder with a savage twist.

"Elizabeth," Kid begins, but Liz is unable to endure his low, placating tone.

"Don't 'Elizabeth' me, you moron!" she hisses, brandishing the magazine in his direction. "Stop shoving your symmetry crap onto me and Patty, okay? We don't care!"

Liz is both pleased and discomforted by the distressed expression that suddenly graces Kid's face. The widened eyes and the slightly parted lips make him appear intolerably young, and Liz feels her heart rate begin to rise. So she hardens herself and glares at him obstinately.

"Sis, what'sa matter?" Patty asks, no longer laughing. She raises her head from Kid's shoulder, blinking in curiosity and concern. "Whatcha so mad about?"

"I'm _not_ mad," Liz denies, with rather too much force. She stalks past the coffee table and starts to round their couch for the open doorway.

"There is no need to be so antagonistic," Kid grumbles, suddenly sullen. "I was merely asking you to-"

"I'm _not_ being… Ugh, just shut up, brat!" Liz snaps, and makes an unexpected swipe at the back of his head with her magazine. The cylinder connects with a light, hollow _thwack_, ruffling the mysterious white stripes in his hair, and Liz fights the abrupt urge to plunge her fingers into that silky hair.

Patty giggles at this improvisation, and peers over the back of the couch at her sister. "But it's _fun_ to hug Kid!" she insists cheerfully. "He's all comfy and cold! Like a pile of snow! You should try it, Sis!"

"_Never!_"

Liz feels the word erupt from her mouth unbidden. It tastes terrible on her tongue, mostly because she can at least admit to herself that this is a bald-faced lie. Because right now, as she sweeps past the couch and watches Kid turn his head to bear witness to her retreat, there is really nothing she wants more than to do what Patty is doing right now. To sink into the cushion beside him, wrap her arms around his slender frame, nuzzle her nose into his bony shoulder. To do _more_ than what Patty is doing, or would even think to do. To loosen that tie around his neck and experience the cool skin of his face beneath her lips and have those infinite golden irises fill up all of her vision…

For a brief second, Liz glimpses Kid's reaction to her departure, and she thinks, _he looks like Death again, all still, silent, and cold._ His face is nearly indecipherable, but something deep inside of her – that Liz is certain the young Grim Reaper would identify as her soul – tells her that he is perturbed, saddened. _Disappointed_.

Liz walks through the doorway, hand clenched wretchedly around her magazine. She had planned to leave it open, but reconsiders when she hears Kid's voice haughtily interject, "Don't close it, I still need to check the paint for-"

She slams the door shut behind her, the sound echoing forlornly down the corridor. Leaning back against the wood, she swallows hard and tries to decide what to do next. She hadn't left with any real objective in mind.

_It's just not fair_, Liz thinks, shutting her eyes tightly. _How could this happen to me? We only came with him because he seemed like the perfect target: rich, but not bright enough to safeguard what he's got. Easy pickings. And he's a Grim Reaper of all things, and a neurotic, snobbish, perfectionist to boot! But then he has to be all… beautiful and mysterious and generous and sweet to Patty and... and… _

_Why? _She grimaces, with a sigh of frustration. _Why Death the Kid?_

_Why me?_


	3. Bargaining

**Bargaining **

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><p>"<em>If we have been unable to face the sad facts in the first period and have been angry at people and God in the second phase, maybe we can succeed in entering into some sort of an agreement which may postpone the inevitable happening. …The bargaining… has to include a prize offered 'for good behavior,' it also sets a self-imposed 'deadline'… and it includes an implicit promise that the patient will not ask for more if this one postponement is granted." – Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, <em>_On Death and Dying_

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><p>Liz poses confidently in front of the floor-length mirror, then gives a quick, self-indulgent twirl, watching the billowy fabric pleat itself with the motion before falling back into place against her knees. She actually likes this sundress, which is solid white and shows off the elegant bone structure of her neck and shoulders. It is cut in a more mature style than Patty's matching one, which is somewhat shorter and includes several layers of airy crinoline that make a light crackling sound when she sits, much to Patty's unfettered glee. Liz briefly turns her back to the mirror and peers over her shoulder to check the bow of the dress' silky sapphire-blue sash. The two loops are appropriately symmetrical, the knot hidden beneath an enameled skull-shaped brooch, in concession to her meister. <em>Kid did a good job in picking this one out<em>, Liz thinks approvingly, and smiles at her reflection. _Finally getting somewhere with him about women's fashion._

There is a light rap at the door, and after a quick check for modesty, Liz brightly replies, "Come in!" The door opens and Death the Kid steps into the small changing room with her, closing the door conscientiously behind him. This room – which Kid, in his cultured pompousness, calls a _boudoir_ – is situated between her bedroom and personal bathroom, forming a corridor between them. It features extensive racks of her clothes and shoes against one wall, the tall mirror against the other, and an oversized upholstered ottoman in the center. Liz will sheepishly admit that this room is not, in fact, _small_ in any way, but in comparison to the rest of the rooms in Gallows Manor, it is snug and practically quaint.

Liz is pleasantly amused to see that Kid has chosen to don one of his lesser-worn suits, the slick white one he wore at the DWMA's disastrous Founding Day Party. She notes, however, that he has exchanged the flouncy white jabot for a similar one in the same jeweled hue as her and Patty's sashes. She can't help but grin at his constant attempts for perfect outfit coordination between the three of them.

Kid, apparently bolstered by her obvious good mood, smiles candidly back at her. "I can see you're nearly ready to depart," he says. "You look wonderful in that dress, by the way."

"Thanks!" Liz accepts the compliment readily, feeling her soul tingle warmly in gratification. "You look pretty sharp yourself, Kid. Do you know how Patty's doing?"

"Ready whenever you are. I just checked on her, she's coloring in a workbook in her room. I told her that laying on her stomach like that would wrinkle her dress and make it asymmetrical, but…" Kid trails off with a mild sigh of exasperation.

"Don't worry, if it does crease, I'll make sure it's ironed before we get into any fancy meetings," Liz assures him. The fact that the mission they are about to leave for is a diplomatic venture, rather than a messy battle for souls, pleases her immensely. _No violence_, she thinks happily, _and no chance for catastrophe. No kishin eggs, no witches, no haunted ships, no ghosts…! It's practically a vacation!_

Liz is of the opinion that they both need and deserve a vacation, too. With the revival of the kishin Asura, all of their school friends have been busy fighting due to the rising number of incidents spawned by the madness wavelength. Kid, however, has seen his workload increase _tenfold_ between his extracurricular missions for the DWMA, his classified missions as the only mobile Grim Reaper, and his own private investigative missions. Liz and Patty, as Kid's weapons, feel the strain as well, but Liz knows it is nothing compared to what Kid is responsible for. So Liz imagines this mission – in which they are to meet with one of the South American ambassadors, in Lord Death's stead, to discuss the AWOL status of their resident Death Scythe – will be a nice stress reliever. _After all, _she thinks, _we get to go to Rio de Janeiro, where it's still warm but actually has sandy beaches! And I get to wear a nice dress without worrying about getting blood all over it!_

"Just let me put my shoes on," Liz tells Kid, "and then… I think that's all I have left to do…" She pads barefoot over to the ottoman, where the white strappy heels she has chosen lean against the plush side. She sits, making sure the skirt of her sundress lays smoothly beneath her, and reaches for the first shoe.

As she toys with the first strap, trying ineffectually to undo its tiny silver clasp, she catches a glimpse of Kid through the light brown curtain of her loose hair. He is standing quietly somewhere between the door to her bedroom and the ottoman, hands clasped loosely behind his back, casually watching her slow progress. Liz feels her fingers fumble with the buckle again as a familiar heat begins to rise in her cheeks and the pit of her stomach begins to squirm. She is now acutely sensitive to Kid's caramel-and-saffron gaze, and huffs distractedly at the tricky shoe.

It has only gotten worse over time. Liz knows it, too. His short, slender frame, pale skin, and two-toned hair has only grown more attractive to her as the months and years have rolled by, his obsessive-compulsive personality _somewhat_ less infuriating and easier to deal with than before. Like Patty, she has grown attached to the young Grim Reaper, despite her previous criminal schemes and contrary resolve, and feels she has come too far with him as his weapon to turn back now. The resonance between the three of them is solid and strong, a testament to their mutual ties of respect and admiration, and Liz considers this one of their greatest strengths in battle.

Unlike her sister, though, Liz can almost physically feel this attachment slipping dangerously into a particularly complicated direction. She knows Patty's own feelings for Kid well, because the younger girl seems to delight in broadcasting her sibling-like affection for him at every possible moment. Patty treats Kid much in the same way as she treats Liz, with enthusiastic hugs and playful demands for attention and teasing laughter. This had, at one time, bothered Liz greatly and in a strange way, but she has since realized that Patty never meant any harm and was only behaving towards Kid as she would have towards the brother they never had.

So Liz wonders why it is that her own mind - or heart, soul, whatever it is – has always felt the need to skid off the familial path into the unknown precipice of _something more_. Time and again, she has tried to brace herself against this unauthorized descent, but in the process, the impending ledge has only seemed to grow closer, more difficult to avoid. More inevitable.

_If only_, Liz thinks, finally loosening the strap and starting on the next one, _I could stop thinking like this, everything would be fine. I'll admit it, I care about Kid, but if I could just stop being so thrilled by his compliments, and pleased with how he interacts with Patty, and worried about his symmetry fits, and… I don't know… just stop always looking at him like I want to _eat_ him or something…! _She sighs in exasperation with herself. _If I can just keep treating him like the meister he is to me… the friend he is… the close friend… If I can just keep it platonic, maybe this will all just pass. Just a phase. _

_I can agree to that, right?_

The remaining straps present less of a problem, and Liz slips the heel on her foot and begins to redo the clasps as Kid strolls mindlessly up to her mirror. One shoe accomplished, Liz pauses and looks up to see Kid examining himself querulously in the glass. His dissatisfied expression is somehow adorable, and Liz has to bite her lip to keep her thoughts from moving any further down that road.

"It's okay, I already checked your jabot," she tells him thoughtfully. "You got it on straight."

"Yes, I know," he mutters – though he gives the blue silk a self-conscious pat anyway - then gestures accusingly at the half-stripes blighting his otherwise black hair. "But there's nothing I can do about _these_. They always throw everything off!"

Liz smiles soothingly at his usual grumblings. "It's not _that_ bad," she says, and Kid sends her a brief, petulant scowl.

"What I wouldn't give," he continues presently, tracing a finger over the white middle line, "to make my hair symmetrical. Like yours. And Patty's, too. If I could just _fix_ it, I'd trade almost anything…" When Liz snorts at his comment, he raises one thin eyebrow imperiously. "What is it?"

"It's the same for everyone, Kid," she replies dryly. "I mean, seriously, who _doesn't_ wish they could change something about themselves? Hell, I'd love to be smart like Maka, or all nice and sweet like Tsubaki-"

"You're not unintelligent, Liz," Kid interjects, looking rather affronted, though Liz doesn't see why it's his right to be so. "And you're very kind, when you have it in your mind to act in such a way. Don't you see how much your sister looks up to you? You are unerringly considerate when it comes to her… and to me as well."

Liz is unable to speak for a moment in the face of this defense, but after picking up her second heel, eventually concedes, "Maybe sometimes. But that's not the point! The point is, everyone goes through the same thing, wishing they could have someone else's… something. Personality, or talents, or… body or whatever."

"I don't see how you would know about _that_ one," Kid says, fingering his bangs sullenly. It takes Liz a moment to realize what he is saying. Then, she laughs.

"Oh, _please_," she says with a smirk, "if I could just have more shapely legs or… you know…" Liz roguishly mimes breasts larger than her own against her chest. "…like Patty, then I'd-"

"You're perfectly beautiful the way you are."

Liz freezes. Kid's back is to her as he faces the mirror, but she catches his golden eyes staring straight into her own through the crisp reflection. Even cloaked in solid white, he is a picture of Death, motionless, quiet, and rather _grim_. His expression clearly communicates the absolute seriousness in which he holds his previous comment. And Liz feels herself begin to shift once again, inch by inch, on down that dreaded slippery slope.

A long moment of silence passes between them, not uncomfortably, but full of vibrating tension. Then Kid breaks the spell, turning away from the mirror and coming to sit gracefully next to her on the edge of the ottoman. He doesn't look up at her as he takes the remaining shoe from her unresponsive hand and starts to loosen the straps. But Liz stares at him hard, trying to decipher _something_ from the smooth, blank face half-hidden beneath his glossy hair.

"I don't know why," he mutters softly, barely above a whisper, the clasps falling open easily to his fingers, "you would want to change anything about yourself. To me, you're…"

He neglects to finish his sentence. Instead, he slides smoothly off the edge of the ottoman to kneel at her feet, in a way that sends a terrible jolt of recognition through her body and causes her to take a sudden inhaling breath. He grows still at her obviously shocked reaction, then slowly – as if to prevent her from flying off in fright – he takes her bare foot in his right hand and gently begins to slip the heel on it. His skin is icy cool against her own, and even though she expects this anomaly, the chill still sends a tremor up her leg, through her knee, and past the hemline of her dress. Fortunately, she doesn't flinch at this or at the light touch of his fingertips against her ankle, but her heart rate spikes until she feels the blood pounding rapidly in her head. She finds, to her dismay, that she has reached the rim of her internal precipice. As Kid begins to refasten the first strap around her foot, she stares at him and, suddenly, unintentionally, slips over the edge.

Liz clears her throat delicately and says in a low, sober tone, "You're perfectly beautiful to me, too."

His head raises instantly, and Liz is treated to the sight of his amazed face stained in a light wash of pink. Liz feels her own cheeks heat up in response, her hands' grasp on the upholstery tighten. His wide, innocent eyes are like headlights on her own, and she sees in them something she has rarely seen there before. Her quivering soul automatically gives it a name.

_Hope. _

"_Kid…_" she whispers gently.

"_Elizabeth…" _

They are silent and motionless for a moment. Then, Kid's right hand leisurely leaves her ankle, reaching up to sweep a tendril of hair away from her face. His fingers barely skim against her warm cheek before she feels her left hand move of its own accord, manicured nails catching at his slender wrist. But the motion is too sudden and her grasp on him too hard, for Kid immediately jerks back, the glowing expression on his face wiped clean.

"No…!" Liz tries desperately to right what she has ruined, but she knows Kid will never forget this moment of her hesitation. "Don't-"

"I'm sorry," Kid says vacantly, "I didn't mean to-"

"It's not that!" Liz blurts out, startling both of them. "It's not… _that_, Kid. Really. It's not anything against _you_. It's just that…"

Patiently, Kid waits for her to continue, but when she doesn't, he sighs lightly and says, "I understand." At her questioning stare, he adds, "Too many problems. Too many imperfectionsfor things to be sorted out cleanly and precisely."

"…What do you mean?" Liz asks, voice low and suspicious, slowly releasing his wrist.

"I'm too young," Kid says, and his bluntness surprises her. "For you. As it were. And… there's the issue of our association as meister and weapon. Our partnership with Patty. Our differing personalities and routines. Our reputations at the-"

"Screw that," Liz snaps, and is suddenly embarrassed by her outburst. "I just mean… that's not really the main problem here. Not that those things wouldn't need to be sorted out, but… it's just the timing. That's all."

"Timing?" Kid asks, tone still light and vaguely aloof. He quickly finishes fastening the last straps on her shoe and lets his hands drop limply to the carpet.

"You know," Liz says, trailing, "with that damn Kishin running around spreading his madness everywhere and making people go crazy." A spark of a grin flits onto Kid's face at the image, and Liz takes a bit of comfort in this. "And I know you're worried about your dad and all…"

"Yes," Kid admits, with a slight nod of acknowledgement, "that is true. Right now is not the best time to be discussing or even considering this sort of thing."

"_Right now_," Liz stresses, and carefully places one hand on each of his shoulders. The light material of his suit is cool to the touch, but not nearly as comfortably chilled as his skin. Kid peers back at her intently, and Liz can feel that he is carefully soaking up all of her words, and all of the meaning behind them. "Let's just… give it a little time, okay? See how things are… when we get this whole Kishin business taken care of. Grow up a bit more. See how things stand then, in a few… in a few years."

Kid doesn't remark on this indistinct deadline, but Liz feels the paradox of its far-off distance and close proximity keenly. He nods again to show his understanding and calmly murmurs, "That is a suitable arrangement."

"Kid…"

"Don't worry, Liz," he says with a small smile, "I won't bother you about it in the interim. I promise."

"I just… We both just need a little more time. And then we can see if… Please?"

"Of course," he acquiesces, and his allowance to her is so gracious that Liz feels the pain of it deep in her soul. Kid stands up slowly, and Liz's slack hands glide down his arms until they come to rest in his cool palms. He pulls her gently to her feet. She wobbles for a moment, unaccustomed to the high heels, and he holds her hands steady until she finds her balance. Even after she has stabilized, his grasp is firm to the point of tightness, as if reluctant to let her go. But then Kid releases her hands with another small, shy smile that Liz thinks doesn't quite reach his golden eyes.

"I suppose… we better get going, huh?" Liz ventures uncertainly, after a long moment of silence. "Don't want to miss our plane…" Kid makes a small noise of assent, looking away. Liz follows his gaze and is abruptly greeted by the sight of their reflections in the mirror.

In their matching white garments with the sapphire blue accents, Liz thinks they make a pretty good-looking pair, beautiful and stylish and sophisticated. But the strappy heels only serve to widen the disparity between their heights, and the mature cut of her filled-out dress beside his round, childish face only serves to emphasis the gap in their ages. And Liz can't help but notice the difference between her own peach flesh and Kid's pallid skin…

"You know," Kid says quietly, as if apologetic for bringing it up again, "there is… another problem…"

"…What's that?" Liz asks just as softly, catching his golden gaze in the reflection.

"You are mortal, and I am the Grim Reaper," he replies. It is a statement of fact. Liz doesn't respond. "Will be, anyway. Am now, too, really, but…"

"I know," Liz whispers.

And she does know. She knows it too well.

_Just give it some time,_ she tells herself, in an effort to be reassuring. _So I'm attracted to Kid, and it seems he may be attracted to me in return. It doesn't mean that anything like _that_ actually has to happen between us, right? I just said we'll see how things go, after the Kishin is destroyed and all. If we can just stay meister-and-weapon or even close friends in the meantime, things might turn out completely different. Maybe he and I will just be like siblings, as he and Patty are… If only we could stay this way, then… I wouldn't have to face… I can do that. I can agree to that. …Right?_

Even at this moment, Liz has the feeling such an agreement is doomed to fail.


	4. Depression

**Depression**

* * *

><p>"<em>An understanding person will have no difficulty in eliciting the cause of the [reactive] depression and in alleviating some of the unrealistic guilt or shame which often accompanies the depression… We are always impressed by how quickly a patient's depression is lifted when these vital issues are taken care of." – Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, <em>_On Death and Dying_

* * *

><p>"Sis?"<p>

Liz hears Patty's hesitant voice echo down the corridor outside. She doesn't respond.

"…Sis? …Liz, where are you?"

Silently, she buries herself deeper into the mattress.

"…Lizzie? …_Liz!_ Where _are_ you!"

A choking sob is ripped unbidden from her throat, and Liz feels her body begin to tremble again. She squeezes her eyes tightly shut, but a salty drop of moisture escapes anyway, leaving a thin trail down her cheek before it is absorbed by her pillow.

"_Liz!_"

_He's gone_, she thinks. And it is all she can think, the only thing she knows anymore. _He's gone. He's gone he's gone he's gone he's gone…_ The terrible mantra is stuck in her head, whirling fruitlessly in place, just as she once spun 'round and 'round in gun form in his soft, pale hands. She shudders and inhales with a painful gasp at the memory. She hears the sound of Patty's footsteps pause outside her door. Liz holds her breath, waiting. A moment later, there is a gentle knock – _tap, tap, tap_ – and an uncertain, whispered, "Sis?"

She rolls over in her bed, turning her back to the door.

A beat passes and Liz hears the click of the latch, the creak of the hinges. She manages to open her weary eyes just enough to see an insipid wash of pale yellow light sweep through the darkness and fall across her thick blue comforter. She feels, rather than hears, Patty enter and make her way over to the bed, tiptoeing across the carpet with uncharacteristic care. The mattress sinks behind her, and Liz knows her sister is leaning over her and watching her for signs of sleep. She tries to relax, to keep her breathing slow and regular, but she can't stop the trembling and there is a catch in her throat that abruptly makes her cough.

"Sis!" Patty exclaims. Her voice is vaguely whiny with frustration, but mostly just deeply concerned. It hurts Liz to hear it. The pressure on the mattress ceases as Patty leaps up and flies around past the foot of the bed to the other side.

As she swings into view, Liz sniffs and clenches the comforter tightly in her hands. In the light from the corridor, she can see that Patty's sky-blue eyes are as wide as normal, though her eyebrows sit flat and low over top of them, and her lips are only slightly open, the corners angled down. Liz knows that this is how her younger sister expresses her anxiety – she has seen this face before, though not very often – but still, Liz can't help but think that it makes Patty seem angry. _And maybe she is_, Liz reflects, with something akin to dread.

The mattress dips again as Patty presses her palms down onto the bed and bends over to peer into Liz's face. She squints, and Liz realizes that Patty can't see her tearstained face very well with the backlighting. She wishes selfishly that Patty had left her alone, had gone on down the corridor to her own bedroom, but barring that, she wishes Patty had at least closed the door behind her, shut out the light, left them stranded in the colorless, blanketing dark. The sickly light is just bright enough to tinge her normally cobalt room a deep Prussian blue, but the hue no longer brings her the joy it once did. She didn't want to have to look at it anymore, not with the cherished memory she has of his off-handed remark, _"it matches the color of your eyes."_

_Not that closing the door would have made much difference_, she thinks bitterly, _not when we're the only ones in the whole Manor. Just the two of us…_

"Have you been… are ya _crying_?" Patty asks, with a note of wary doubt. Liz sniffs again, another tear looming at the rim of her eye, which clearly dispels her sister's uncertainty. Patty's smooth forehead wrinkles beneath her heavy yellow bangs and she nibbles at her lip, lessening the severity of her expression into something more gentle and sympathetic.

"_Patty…_" Liz just manages to say in a hoarse whisper. Patty obviously takes this as an invitation, as she immediately scrambles up onto the bed. With a bit of tugging and maneuvering, the younger girl manages to pull back the corner of the comforter Liz is huddled under. Liz shudders.

"You're shivering," Patty observes. "It _is_ pretty cold in here, like on Lost Island. Why'd you let it get like that, silly?" Liz doesn't comment. She had, in fact, turned the air conditioner to a much colder temperature than she normally preferred, but she couldn't explain aloud how the chilled air gave her a vague sensation of his presence, however ridiculous and false it was.

Patty pushes her bare feet under the blanket, scoots a bit down the mattress, and then lies beside Liz. When she pulls the edge of the comforter back up above their shoulders, all Liz can see is her sister's face poking out, short yellow hair crumpled against their shared pillow. Two sets of blue eyes spend a long moment staring into each other.

"So…" Patty finally says, in a drawn-out tone, "Whatcha crying 'bout?" Liz twitches and feels her face contort in untamable emotion. Patty's lips curve into a tiny, knowing smile. "Kid, huh?"

Slowly, Liz tries to nod, but the motion is made difficult by her head's pressure against the pillow. It is too hard to raise her head up, though. Her sister seems to understand anyway.

"I'm sad, too, ya know," Patty says, in a conversational way. Liz can see this sadness in her sky-blue eyes, and knows it runs much deeper than the girl's voice lets on. "You don't have to cry by yourself, Sis. We can do it together! And I know you cry, you don't have to hide it. Even a Big Sis like _you_ is allowed to do that."

Liz chokes down a painful sob. "You don't understand, Patty…"

"'Course I do," her sister objects lightly. "I miss Kiddo, too! I want to know how he is, and I want him back from that freaky guy with the book-"

"You don't understand!" Liz insists, and when Patty opens her mouth to speak, she cuts her off with a wrenching cry. "_It's my fault! …It's my fault that he's gone!_"

Patty's expression shifts to something unreadable. "It's not-"

"_Yes it is_," Liz hisses, low and dangerous. Her throat is sore and scratchy from the outburst, and she presses the side of her face deeper into the pillow. "I'm the one who let him get captured. We were right _there_ and I just let that Noah creep walk away. _I had you aimed right at him, Patty, and I could have shot him point-blank!_ And I _didn't!_ I just let him _take Kid away_!"

And she had.

The ingrained image of that moment rises up before her eyes to haunt her. The stone walls of Baba Yaga's Castle crowding her with claustrophobia. Noah, declaring her unworthy of being added to his collection, effectively dismissing her as any kind of threat at all by turning his back to her, even as she held him at gunpoint. "I'll be going now," Noah had said, impassive and completely unafraid, and had walked away without a backward glance. _Kid's gone, and I'm the one who let him go_, she thinks. _He's gone, and I let him go. He's gone, and it's all my fault. My fault my fault my fault my fault…_

"It's not your fault," Patty says, in just about the most serious and sober tone Liz has ever heard from her before.

"Sure it is," Liz whispers. Her aching throat tears at her with each word. "You were right. You said it even then. I _was_ being a coward. I should have done something, _anything_. Shot him, called for help, distracted him while you tried to snatch that book. Anything, but just sit there and cry like the-"

"No," Patty asserts, and Liz feels a small, calm hand on the back of her own trembling one. Liz blinks back another tear. "_You _were the one that was right, Sis. I think… I think if we'd gone after the freaky book guy, we might of both been goners, eh? His black, blobby worm thing exploded that mosquito guy like _that_, and we had to fight _that_ guy real hard and couldn't even kill him!"

"Patty…"

"And… I'm sorry I called you a coward, Sis," Patty admits quietly. The apology, lacking her sister's usual childish teasing, stuns Liz. "What you did was actually real brave… So, please, don't feel guilty anymore… 'kay?"

Liz feels another wave of sobs well up in her chest, and abruptly begins to weep. Patty makes a sort of dismayed, keening noise and scoots closer to Liz in the bed. The mattress dips lower beneath her until she can feel Patty's body snuggly against hers: her sister's muscular legs tangled up in her own, her soft breasts against her chest, her small hands on her back pulling her into an unguarded embrace. It is too close, really, even for them, but Liz can't find it in herself to push her away. She wraps an arm around Patty. Her sister's body is warm, so warm, a ray of summer sunlight focused through a glass window. This close, Liz can smell her skin, which holds a warm scent with the vaguest hint of sweat, like waking up in the morning under too many heavy blankets.

But warmest of all is Patty's soul. After all these years, Liz can feel its wavelength distinctly reaching out for her own. Their souls are always connected on some level, Liz knows, but right now Patty is trying desperately to strengthen this bond, to synchronize the vibrations to the point where they move together, like one soul rather than two. Liz lets her in a little bit more, but not too far. Because as wonderful, as comforting, and as _right_ as it feels, there is something absent now, something off to the side that has been left out, a chord missing its rooting note.

"It's okay." Patty's breath is a warm puff of air against Liz's ear as small hands stroke her back. "It's gonna be okay, Sissy. It's not your fault. It's… It's…" She trails off and then goes silent. Liz realizes after a moment that Patty has grown thoughtful. She feels the soft brush of that warm soul, and her own quivers in response. Patty shifts her head back a bit until she can look into Liz's eyes again. Her sky-blue gaze is curious. "It's not just that, is it, Sis?"

Liz sniffs, feeling her nose begin to tingle under the strain of her weeping. "What's that?"

"You're not just sad 'cause Kid's gone and you think you could'a done something 'bout it," Patty says. Liz frowns through her tears. "There's something else, too…"

"Patty…" Liz whines, then reaches out to accept her sister's wavelength, preferring its comfort over the questioning. Patty's soul pulls back, however, and Liz realizes her sister is refusing to be distracted.

"What else do you feel guilty 'bout, Sis?" Patty presses. "Me and you are fine, heh? I'm safe, you don't have to worry about me…"

"I _know_," Liz murmurs, scratchily, "and that's all that matters."

Patty stares at her blankly for a moment, then asks, "…Is it?"

At one time, Liz would have said, "Yes."

And at one time, that would have been the truth. Liz remembers it clearly, how it felt when all that mattered in the world was Patty, her safety, and her happiness. How it felt when the only reason Liz fought to survive was to protect her little sister, her sole purpose for living to keep that precious, rosy, warm soul alive. How it felt when the mere thought of someone else, who might also make her feel this way, made Liz recoil in suspicion and disgust. Liz realizes, though, that she is only _remembering_ these feelings, that they no longer hold true. Because now there really _is_ one more thing in the world that matters as much as Patty, and it scares Liz, and fills her with an anxiety, a guilt, and a sorrow that nearly tears her apart.

So instead of saying "yes," Liz just bites her lip and lets her tears flow down her cheek.

To her astonishment, Patty's mouth twitches into a small smile and she giggles. Liz stares. Patty is _giggling_. There is a touch of sadness to it, but still, the sound is too cheerful, too shrewd, and Liz squirms uneasily in her sister's grip. Patty's arms tighten vise-like around her. "It's okay," Patty repeats, though the rest of her words are brand new. "…I know how much you love Kid."

Liz instantly grows rigid, and her damp eyes widen. Patty giggles again, though louder this time.

"What, you thought I didn't know that? But it's obvious, silly!"

"_Patty_…" Liz barely manages to whisper, her sore throat run dry. Her face is wet, her nose is beginning to drain, and the strain is beginning to stir up a dull throb in her temples. She tries to focus on these miseries, rather than on her pounding heart and burning cheeks, but it is a challenge.

"It's not bad, ya know," Patty says, grinning. "No reason to be 'shamed of being in love with Kid! I love him, too, just different, heh? …You're not 'shamed, are you, Sissy?"

"Patty, I… _I can't!_ I just _can't_…" Liz groans, closing her eyes tightly against the painful onslaught.

"Why not? It's pretty obvious he loves you back."

Liz can't help the jolt of pleasure that runs through her at Patty's words, at the thought that they might prove accurate. Her own words continue to fight against it, however. "It's just… I'm not _supposed to_, okay? …I'm not supposed to… _feel_ like this…"

"How _do _you feel?" asks Patty. Liz thinks this is actually a pretty good question. She tries to articulate it, though she is unsure of what she will say until it slips out of her mouth.

"Like… nothing's right, because he's not here. Everything just seems… dull and pointless or something. Wrong and off-balanced and… and…" Liz hears herself give an ironic laugh, as she squints at Patty through her tears, "_not symmetrical_. It's like… it feels like…"

Liz pauses, and feels her eyes widen as the thought occurs to her.

"Patty, it feels like I'm _dying_…"

Her sister is quiet for a moment. Then, she grins, and Liz feels a small, warm finger wipe away one of her tears.

"'Sounds like love to me."

"It's only supposed to be like that for _you_," Liz whispers the admission sideways into her pillow. She feels Patty stir, then adjusts her own long limbs as her sister breaks the embrace and sits up, crossing her legs. A rush of chilled air fills in the gap, and it tingles against Liz's body-warmed skin. Patty inclines her head, almost conspiratorially, her arms wrapped tightly around her ribs underneath her breasts.

"But it's not just me and you anymore, Sis," she says pointedly. "We're Kid's weapons, part of his _family_. It's _supposed_ to be this way. You and me can love each other like sisters do, and you and Kid can love each other like… like…"

Rubbing her itching cheek, Liz jumps in before Patty can find her – possibly lewd – simile. "It's not that simple, though. I mean, Kid and me, we're… We're completely different. He's all… caring and generous and principled and… He's too good for me…" Liz feels herself shrink sheepishly beneath the comforter under a suddenly withering stare. "All high-class and… Well… He's too… too… _short_, okay? Too short and young and…" Patty's laughter forces Liz into recognizing the absurdity of her argument. She can feel herself caving in to her sister's logic, so in desperation, she plays her final, damning card. "Patty, he's not _human_… He's…"

Liz watches as Patty leans back and pale light sweeps over her form. Her sunshine yellow hair almost glows in the surrounding darkness, her cheeks round and pink as she smiles angelically down at Liz's despondent face. "But, Sis, isn't that what they teach us at school? It's not the mind or the body that counts…"

Liz hears her own amazed voice sound along with her sister's.

"…it's the _soul_."

Patty's smile widens. "So you see? There's nothing to worry about!" Liz is silent, her mind too full of racing thoughts to respond. "We're gonna get Kid back, and then you can tell him how you feel! And everything will be even better than before, and you and Kid can be all kissy and stuff and deal with all that _sexual tension...!"_

"_Patty!"_ Liz growls, mortified.

Her sister just laughs. "That's more like it!" Embarrassed as she is, Liz can't help the small grin that flits onto her tear-stained face. _Maybe it is that simple_, she thinks. _Maybe… maybe… _

_This may not be so terrible after all._


	5. Acceptance

**Acceptance**

* * *

><p>"<em>If a patient has had enough time… and has been given some help in working through the previously described stages, he will reach a stage during which he is neither depressed nor angry about his 'fate.' He will have been able to express his previous feelings… It is not a resigned and hopeless 'giving up,' a sense of 'what's the use' or 'I just cannot fight it any longer'…" – Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, <em>_On Death and Dying_

* * *

><p>It happens in an instant.<p>

When Liz wakes up, it is without her usual lassitude, but with immediate alertness and clarity. Momentarily stunned, she rolls over in bed to check the glowing clock on her nightstand and discovers that it is midnight. She frowns into the darkness of her bedroom and tries to figure out what exactly it was that snapped her into wakefulness.

Something is missing, she decides presently. With a sudden twinge of alarm, she reaches out with her soul for Patty and Kid. Both of their wavelengths are there – she can feel the distinct vibrations of her two partners down the hall, each in their own rooms – and Liz sighs in relief, breathing deeply to calm her pounding heart. She no longer has to worry about Kid's absence, for he had been rescued from the Book of Eibon many months ago. But still, Liz thinks, something is lacking in the air, something important, but she can't pinpoint what on Earth it could be.

It is then that the first scream pierces through the silent night.

"_NO!"_

Liz is flinging back her covers and throwing herself out of bed before she even realizes what she is doing. Her bare feet hit the floor hard, but she ignores the brief pain, bolting to the door and wrenching it open. She wastes no time thinking about what sort of creepy, icky horrors – supernatural or otherwise – might be out there stalking through the darkness, because it was Kid's strangled cry that echoed down the hallway to her room and she needs to get to him _now_.

As she races down the dim corridor, she hears a door slam open and the sound of Patty's feet pounding the floor behind her. Liz huffs as her sudden exertion catches up to her, but runs faster as several more screams of _"NO! NO! NO!"_ reach her ears. It seems to take far too long to get there, but the door to Kid's bedroom finally looms up in front of her and she pounces on the doorknob. Patty is there next to her, panting, with her lace-trimmed cotton nightgown tangled in her legs. Liz throws open the door and they stumble inside.

The first thing Liz notices is that the lamp on the right side of Kid's bed has been turned on. The second thing she notices is that the matching lamp, on the twin nightstand on the left side of his bed, has – impossibly – been left off. Her stomach sinks immediately at this, and she whips her head around, her gaze falling on Kid.

He is kneeling on the floor in front of the full-length mirror on the wall, but Liz is unable to discern his expression. All she can see is the left side of his face, and it is cast in shadow. She steps carefully towards him, giving him plenty of time to recognize her approach, except he doesn't look away from the mirror. _"…NO! …NO!"_ he continues to cry, as if in disbelief, and Liz feels small hands close tightly on the edge of her nightshirt, a warm cheek press against her upper arm in consternation. As they near their meister, Liz realizes, with mounting panic, that he is not so much kneeling on the floor as he is _slumped_ on it weakly, and she watches him raise trembling hands to his head, fisting his short hair tightly. She steps closer, Patty in tow, until she can get down on the floor next to him. Inches away, she stares at his profile, and takes in the wide eye, its ringed pupil contracted almost into nothingness. His jaw is slack, and his pale face is more washed out than she has ever seen it before. It hits her then, that she can _feel_ the coldness of his body radiating off of him, which is not natural. And when she brushes tentatively against his soul with her own, she meets the tingling surface of it quicker than usual, as if it has somehow expanded.

"Kid…?" Liz whispers gently, in-between his continued verbal dissent. "Kid, please, what's wrong? …Kid, what is it?" He only shakes his head, in a vague way, eye still glued to the mirror. Liz reaches out and grasps each of his delicate wrists, slowly pulling his hands out of his untidy hair. He allows her, so she releases his wrists and cradles each of his cool cheeks in her hands instead. She tilts his head around to face her, still whispering, "Kid, tell us what's-"

She stops. She hears Patty's gasp in her ear, drowning out the sound of her own.

Above shocked golden eyes, three horizontal white stripes cut through glossy black hair, forming a complete and endless ring around his head.

And Liz realizes what it is that is missing: from the manor, from the city, from the world.

Lord Death is gone.

The next few days are horrible. Liz isn't sure how she is able to even make it through them, but she does. She has never lost anyone really close to her before, and she doesn't know what to do or how to help. But she has to keep going, because Liz knows in her heart what her purpose is, and Kid needs her and her sister now more than he has ever needed them before.

She and Patty spend the rest of that awful night at Kid's side. They curl up on the floor around him like vines, entangling him in their arms as he howls his rejection of this happening over and over, until his voice breaks and his thin body is wracked with silent, shaking sobs. When he begins to crumple face-down to the floor, they drag his limp form back onto his bed. Liz sends Patty off for tissues as she pulls the blankets up to his shoulders. Together, they wipe his blotchy face and their own until they are only slightly sticky with tears, and then slide – by simultaneous decision – under the covers on either side of him. As Patty reaches to turn off the lamp, Liz tucks Kid's face protectively into the side of her neck. They huddle against him in the dark, their souls wrapped around his larger one tightly, but as exhausted as she is, it is a long time before Liz is able to go to sleep. Long into the night, she feels his cold lips moving soundlessly against her fragile skin, denying this new reality over and over and over…

Though the morning, as it always does, brings with it the sunrise, nothing is made better by the light. In fact, Liz thinks things only gets worse. When Kid refuses to leave the bed, Liz takes it upon herself to get dressed and contact Spirit Albarn via mirror. She knows that everyone in Death City must have felt the change to some degree, the vanishing of that great protective soul, so she calls the head Death Scythe less to tell him the news than to let him know that Kid is still there and is fine – physically, anyway. She also asks him for advice. Liz can sense bigger transitions, beyond this personal tragedy, on the horizon from the way the solemn, red-headed man speaks and acts. So she takes in his counseling words as best she can until a loud crash in another room distracts her, and she terminates the link with a hasty promise to call back as soon as possible.

The sight that greets her, when she finally finds the source of the racket, is so strange that it brings her up short. The corridor is in complete disarray. Paintings are tilted precariously, the carpet runner is bunched up, several candles have been ripped off their candlesticks, and a side window is shattered, still raining tiny shards of glittering glass. Liz hears a hoarse screech from another room and quickly follows the haphazard trail of destruction, only pausing to snuff out a candle before it can light the Manor on fire. As she rounds the corner, Kid's incoherent shrieks suddenly become clear. She hears him cry, _"How could He _do_ this to me! HOW!" _before Patty tackles him to the ground, intercepting his attempt to kick over a porcelain vase.

Liz rushes over. Patty has him pinned, but Kid is thrashing wildly and to her horror, Liz catches glimpses of small, ghostly skulls – siphoned off from his enraged soul – snapping through the air. The macabre specters circle far too close to her sister for comfort, and although she knows Kid would never hurt Patty intentionally, she quickly pulls the younger girl off of him. Patty is shrieking right back at Kid, in that special way she has, telling him to _"stop destroying the whole fucking house, you crazy bastard!"_ but her harsh words no longer seem to have any mind-clearing effect. Liz tugs her flailing sister back, and hisses in her ear to clean up the glass and start putting things back to rights. Patty gives a strangled sob, but does Liz's bidding, disappearing back the way they came.

Liz kneels down on the floor next to Kid and inspects his person for damage. His breathing is ragged, and there is an array of tiny nicks and cuts on his hands that are oozing with bright red droplets of blood, but he is otherwise well. He lays still, panting heavily, as she places a gentle hand on his back. He is still wearing his nightclothes, so she can feel each vertebra in his spine through the light cotton as she rubs him with a soothing gesture. Liz rubs her soul against his own at the same time, and gradually, the swooping phantom skulls dissipate. Kid's face, however, screws up in a terrible, ugly expression as his body begins to shake. He clenches his bleeding hands into fists, then pounds one of them on the floor. _"Why?"_ he spits out, and the tone is so twisted and threatening that Liz is sure anyone else would be running away by now. _"Why now? Why would He do this to me when I'm still… still so… IT'S NOT FAIR! …IT'S NOT FAIR!"_

Liz can't help but agree with this assessment. Still, she doesn't have any answers to his questions, so she stays silent and continues to massage his back.

She and Patty bandage his injuries and clean up his chaotic mess without complaint. Kid spends a great deal of time screaming and sobbing and throwing everything he can get his hands on, so they are eventually forced to isolate him in his room. Liz brings the three of them some simple food from the kitchen, and she and Patty eat on his bed, while Kid curls up around a pillow and ignores the proffered plate. Instructing Patty to guard him, Liz leaves the room and calls Spirit back.

It turns out that there is no funeral to plan for. Lord Death's pointy black silhouette has vanished along with his soul, leaving only his broken mask – cracked slantwise from side to side – behind. Spirit and the other Death Scythes, top meisters, and DWMA staff are, however, planning a memorial to occur sometime in the next few days, and Liz nods firmly when asked if Kid will be able to attend. She sees some of their friends – Maka, Soul, Black*Star, and Tsubaki – farther back in the mirror, but hangs up before any of them can try to talk to her.

That night, she and Patty don't even bother with the formality of heading off to their own bedrooms. They just sandwich Kid's cold, trembling body between them and hold onto him tight.

When the day of the memorial finally comes, Liz brings a plate of some kind of casserole up to Kid's room, determined to make him eat something before the long service. Citizens from all over Death City have been bringing them dishes and bowls of fruits and baked desserts by the dozen, and she and her sister have been hard pressed to handle it all, to keep an accurate record of who brought what for the thank you cards they will eventually write. Liz is suddenly very thankful for Gallows Manor's many refrigerators, and she is reflecting on this fact when she taps on the door to Kid's boudoir, shoving it open with her shoulder without waiting for an answer.

Kid is only half-dressed, as if he has forgotten what he is doing in the middle of doing it. His black dress pants are on, as is his white shirt, but neither of them are buttoned up, and his suspenders lay limply against the black leather ottoman he is seated on. He stares dully at the mirror in front of him – something he has done far too often these last few days – with his rapidly-healed hands lying slack in his lap. Liz sits down indifferently next to him, gathers up a forkful of casserole, and holds it hoveringly in front of his mouth.

"Eat," Liz commands. Kid's eyes, still golden but somehow listless, turn towards her blue ones, but he makes no move to follow her order.

"_Eat,"_ she insists, harder this time, jiggling the fork. She forces her mouth into a stern line, to bring home the seriousness of her attitude, but this only makes the corner of his mouth twitch up in a faltering shadow of a smile.

"Do you remember…" Kid begins quietly, and Liz only barely keeps herself from shoving the food into his open mouth. "Do you remember when we talked, before that mission to Rio?" Liz remembers. So she nods. "Do you remember what I said then?" She remembers everything he said then, for she has never been able to get that conversation – their agreement – out of her mind. She doesn't know what particular thing he is referring to, though, so she waits for him to continue.

A pained grin suddenly worms its way onto his face. "I said I would give anything – _anything _– to make my hair symmetrical." Liz feels dark dread claw its way into her chest, and she sets the loaded fork back down onto the plate. Hysterical laughter wells up inside of him; it begins to come out of his mouth in short, jagged bursts. "Well, I got my wish, didn't I, Liz? _Ha ha._ I got just _exactly_ what I wanted. Perfect symmetry, clean and precise. _Ha ha ha… _What I wouldn't give… What I wouldn't give _now…_" The laughter is too close to Kishin-induced madness for comfort, so Liz sets the plate aside and places each of her hands on his shoulders. She gives him a little shake to get his attention.

"Just hold it in, Kid," she says firmly. His tense hilarity subsides slightly, and she sees his gaze cling to her own frantically. "Just… keep it together for right now, okay? Just for the service. That's all. If you can do that, and get through all the condolences and stuff, then we can… we can talk about it afterwards, okay? Just you, me, and Patty. Can you do that, Kid? For your dad?" He stares at her, still desperate. "…For me?" Slowly, he nods, and Liz wipes away a tear that threatens to run down his cheek.

She helps him finish getting dressed: buttoning the buttons, tucking in his shirt, pulling up his suspenders, and slipping on his black blazer. She adjusts the skull-shaped tie around his neck last, fingers lingering helplessly on the familiar shape, before ordering him once more to eat. She makes sure he has consumed at least a third of the casserole on the plate before leaving to put on her own clothes.

The memorial at the DWMA is appropriately packed. Liz and Patty, in matching black mourning dresses, press close on either side of Kid, fending off as many nosy questions and weepy remarks as they can so that Kid is able to stay, for the most part, silent. He is forced to shake hands with some high-ranking individuals, however, and Liz is proud of how brave and stoic he stays in the face of all of this unwanted attention.

When they reach the front row of seats in the service room, only one chair is there, isolated and alone, and Liz feels a pang of dismay. Spirit is nearby, however, bickering angrily with an attendant, a chair dangling from each of his flailing hands. He apparently wins the argument, for Liz watches with mounting gratitude as the Death Scythe wheels around and plunks the two chairs down, one on either side of the lonely one. As Spirit settles down in his own seat in the second row, Liz catches his attention and shoots him a thankful smile. He returns it, with a light thumbs-up and an oddly perceptive glint in his otherwise sorrowful eye.

Liz glances sideways at Kid every minute or so throughout the service, to see how he is holding up. It bothers her, in a self-conscious sort of way, to sit on the front row like this. She knows that most of the audience behind them probably has their eyes fixed on the person next to her, but when she sees Kid's face begin to twist at a particularly heartfelt eulogy, she doesn't hesitate to slip her hand discretely into his. On his other side, Patty not-so-discretely wraps her arms around his arm and holds it captive against her chest. Liz feels Kid's cold fingers slip between her own, his silver ring pressed almost painfully between them. He squeezes her hand and she squeezes his back, not letting go even when the service is over.

They manage, somehow, to evade most of the crowd in leaving the memorial. Their anxious friends come over to talk to Kid, but Liz brushes them off with a flippant wave and a lie about how they must tend to something at home immediately. Liz is uncomfortable with the repeated avoidance. She can only hope that the four of them will one day forgive her for it, but upon seeing their approach, Kid had ducked his head and squeezed her hand, a clear signal that he wasn't ready to face them yet. And Liz wasn't going to force any more social interaction on him that day, not after his stellar behavior at the service.

After that, time seems to drag by, one day melding indifferently into the next. His destructive tendencies abated, Liz and Patty allow Kid to move about the house at will, though he mostly stays in his own quarters or follows them to whatever room they happen to be in. Slowly, he begins to pitch in, helping to arrange the delivered flowers into bouquets, to write repetitive notes of appreciation to their senders, and to clean borrowed kitchenware after the food is gone. He begins to eat again, though only when Liz prompts him to do so, and shows no sign of lapsing into any sort of insane meltdown.

But Liz isn't sure Kid is really getting any better. He has shown no interest in anything going on outside the Manor, and Liz knows, through repeated mirror-conferences with the Death Scythes, that those bigger transitions she had anticipated need to occur, and fast. As Yumi Azusa points out, with a piercing stare, "We can handle the DWMA fine on our own, but not for long. We need a leader, Miss Thompson, and we need him_ now_. You can't keep making excuses for him and sheltering him forever."

One night, after a particularly brutal conference – in which there had been unnecessary name-calling and Marie Mjolnir had emotionally punched a stone column into pieces – Liz resolves to bring up the difficult topic. She lies next to Kid, nearly nose to nose with him in the dark, wondering how to even begin. She can hear Patty's soft, breathy snores on the other side of Kid, and can just catch a glimpse of her soft yellow hair. Unlike her sister, however, Kid is not asleep, but staring absently at the dip in Liz's neck, just visible above the collar of her nightshirt. One slender finger scratches at a loose thread in the white sheets. Liz closes a hand gingerly over his, stilling the restless movement.

"…Kid?" she whispers uncertainly. "…What do you think… about a visit to the Death Room?"

He is silent, and remains staring at her without response. Haltingly, she adds, "…Everyone's really worried that… They miss you, Kid. And… and I think maybe it's time we… time we go back. What do you think?"

"I know what they want of me," Kid says, after a moment. Liz waits, but he does not continue.

"Then… you know… it's got to happen sometime, whether you want it to or not," she replies.

"I know," he murmurs. He slides his finger out from under her hand and slowly reaches out to trace the skin along her collar bone. The cold, ephemeral contact sends a quivering jolt through her entire body, from head to toe. Liz lies perfectly still, the dormant ache in her soul threatening to bubble to the surface. "I know. I just… what's the point, Elizabeth? What's the point of… going on, when He isn't here anymore? I… I always thought the world would end – quite literally – if He ever… But it seems that it is only _my _world that has ended."

"_Oh, Kid_…"

"I miss Him _so much_," Kid whispers, finger lingering against her skin. "I hardly know how to bear it. I'm so sad, I… I've never been this sad before in all my life. And it's… it's _all my fault. _If only these stupid Sanzu Lines hadn't… hadn't… then He'd…" Kid's hand finds its way into his hair, and he grips the solid stripes as if trying to strangle them. The first tears have barely begun to stream down his cheeks before Liz pulls him against her. His small, slender frame barely fills the circle of her arms. She knows he will be able to feel her breasts press against his chest and her knees slide against his thighs, but she no longer cares about this sort of propriety. She feels cold hands hesitantly come to rest on her lower back, and can't help but smile through her own tears.

"It's _not_ your fault," she breathes tenderly in his ear, and she feels his body begin to tremble. She runs her soul against the surface of his own, and an uncertain, searching touch comes in reply. "This is just the way things are, Kid. …There's a circle to it, you know, and… it's just _your_ time now. Your time, to get out there and… Your… your dad's time is passed, and I know He wouldn't want you to blame yourself for it… or be sad that…"

Kid chokes back a sob, and Liz feels herself begin to tremble as well. A small, warm hand comes to rest on her arm, and Liz is aware that Patty has rolled over and is holding onto Kid as well, though whether her sister is actually awake or not, she can't tell.

"I know you're… gonna miss Him, Kid… for a long, long time, and that's okay, but… you have to go on… because we _need_ you. I… I…"

"I know," Kid murmurs shakily. "That's… that's why… I'm trying to hold on."

The next day, when Liz brings breakfast back to what has become _their_ bedroom, she is surprised to find Kid nearly dressed. He is straightening his blazer with contentious, symmetrical sweeps of his hands, and when he looks up at her entrance, she catches his delicate fingers tilt a stubborn cufflink a fraction of a centimeter. She grins before she can stop herself, and is greeted with a sad, though sincere, smile in return. The expression brings a sense of alertness to his face that Liz suddenly realizes she hasn't seen for weeks.

"Thank you, Liz, that looks delicious," Kid says, with a nod towards the scones and strawberry jam. His quiet tone, with that smooth dab of pompousness to it, sounds almost nostalgic to her ears. "You can set the tray down there. And have a look at the outfit I picked out for you. Patty is trying her own on in the next room."

Liz places her offering on a side table, then studies the clothing Kid has carefully laid out on the bed. The first thing that strikes her is the black-and-white color scheme. With a silent chuckle at the monochrome, she strokes the silky texture of the suit, with its crisp edges and distinctly feminine cut. It reminds her a bit of Azusa's usual wardrobe, but little touches here and there – the heavy white stitching against black cloth, the embroidered skulls on the lapels of the double-breasted waistcoat – leave no doubt as to who the real inspiration is. It hovers somewhere on the border between formal and casual, Liz decides, and thinks fondly that she will be able to wear her old high-heeled boots with it.

"…Is it suitable to your tastes?" Kid asks solemnly, though Liz hears a touch of nervousness in his voice as well. She looks up at him, and sees him glance at her out of the corner of his eye. He looks positively shy, she thinks, and suddenly understands that not all of his self-assuredness has returned to him intact. She realizes, too, that this outfit means more to him than simple matching; Kid is marking her – and Patty – as his own. As his weapons, as his closest friends… and as his _only family_.

Liz smiles to reassure him. "I like it very much," she says honestly, and Kid bobs his head, clearly satisfied and somewhat more at ease.

When the three of them finally arrive in the Death Room, they find it quiet and oddly vacant. Liz figures some thoughtful person – Sid or Nygus, perhaps, or maybe even Spirit – must have ushered everyone out upon learning of Kid's abrupt reappearance. They walk down the guillotine passageway in silence, Kid two steps ahead as always, Liz and Patty trailing, one on each side. The jagged cloak Kid had pulled on over his suit billows around him in an absent breeze, and Liz finds herself watching the black shroud thoughtfully.

Upon reaching the dais in the center, they learn that nothing much has changed. The incomprehensible ceiling is still sky blue overhead and inhabited by fluffy white clouds. The vast expanse is still dusty and dry and overpopulated with crooked crosses, and the old, eccentric mirror still stands tall and proud. Kid's golden, high-backed chair, however, has been placed in the center of the dais, a familiar form waiting patiently for them in its seat.

As one, they reverently approach the chair and gaze down at the white, skull-shaped mask, broken in two along a rough, very asymmetrical diagonal. The mask looks sad, Liz thinks, before reminding herself that it is only an object, then taking this thought back as she remembers just how much emotion Kid's father was able to express through this mask. Kid reaches down and, with deliberate care, picks it up, one piece in each hand. His hands tremble every now and then, but Liz sees that his face is set and unwavering. He turns away slowly from the chair and walks on past it, towards the tall mirror. Liz and Patty remain where they are indecisively for a moment, before Patty clambers up into the unoccupied seat and leans back, cross-legged, into it. She shoots Liz a soft but knowing grin, then closes her eyes and folds her arms across her chest in a mockery of sleep. Liz rolls her eyes at the teasing, then leisurely follows in Kid's path.

Kid in staring into the mirror as Liz comes to stand beside him. Together they gaze into its surface. Rather wistfully, Liz imagines the glass - currently as black as onyx, but still crystal clear – rippling like pond water before the image in the mirror morphs into a spiky, bouncing figure. And for a moment, Liz is startled, because she suddenly thinks she sees Him again. But then she realizes that what she is really seeing is Kid's reflection.

Liz turns to look him over in person. The cloak hides his slender body beneath a pointy silhouette, and the three complete rings glow with an almost inner white light in his black hair. Beyond these peculiarities, though, he is still deeply familiar to her eyes. His skin is still pale, his features still round, and his irises still loops of two-toned gold. Kid tilts his head to the side to meet her gaze, and Liz decides he is more beautiful now, in this tragedy-born growth, than he ever was before.

"Do you really think I can do this, Liz?" he asks, gesturing with the two pieces of the mask. "Take over… all of these responsibilities?"

"I do. I know you can," she says, with total confidence. "…And you don't have to do everything by yourself, you know. That's why the DWMA exists… why you have weapon partners… why _I'm_ here. Okay?"

A small smile crosses his solemn features. "I just wish I was as certain about it as you are. To me, it all feels like terrible timing."

"Timing, huh?" Liz senses the memory, recently dredged up, tugging at her mind again.

"Yes, so recent after that whole _Book of Eibon_ incident… and I still feel so untrained, so amateur, at being a Grim Reaper; too young to really have the… the… experience… to…" Kid trails off. His thin eyebrows slowly rise on his forehead, so Liz is literally able to watch his process of recalling the same moment that is in her own thoughts.

"You know," Liz comments casually, "I think, in our line of work, there's never really going to be _perfect_ timing… for anything."

The jagged cloak rustles softly as Kid shifts in place. Liz feels a cool, delicate prod against her soul, and realizes that he is testing her, trying to figure out what she is getting at with her loaded words. She feels her cheeks begin to heat up at his silent inquiry, but the only thing she can think to do is grin. Apparently, this solves the riddle for him.

"I don't believe…" he murmurs, haltingly, under his breath, "that the… specified number of… years in our arrangement… has yet been reached…"

Liz shrugs before she can think about it too hard. "Like I said, no such thing as good timing. And even if it _has_ only been a short amount of time, I think we've both matured quite a bit since then…"

To Liz's amazement, Kid's cheeks begin to steadily grow pink. "There is… Father's passing…"

"C'mon, Kid, you know your dad only ever wanted you to be happy. And…" Liz pauses. She knows how _she_ feels, and she no longer suffers any real qualms about admitting it, but it is still nerve-wracking, not knowing exactly what stage Kid is at himself. With a resigned sigh, she plunges ahead, "…and if I can do anything for you, that will bring you that happiness, I will." She stares him straight in the eye. "You and Patty are my reason for living, Kid. And I-"

"I love you, Elizabeth," Kid says.

She freezes. And of all the things that leap into mind, the one that stands out is, _he beat me to the punch._

"I have, for a long time," he continues presently, looking down at the pieces of the mask in his delicate hands. "It is just… it is just that…" The white fragments, fitted together, catch her eye and Liz nods, understanding why this spoken admittance has _really_ been so long in coming.

"You are _Death_," she whispers.

"…I am Death," he confirms.

Suddenly, there is a crackling noise, and bright light breaks out along the broken, diagonal seam. A moment later, the startling effects cease, and the two of them are left standing there staring at a flawless mask, pristine and perfectly whole.

Liz smiles at this little display of magic, and turns her attention back to the one in front of her. There is still a hint of longing, sharp and painful, in his face, but to her relief, it is overridden by a sense of inner peace, of slow and tranquil acceptance.

It is then that it occurs to her that, for the past few weeks, she has been calling him by the wrong name.

Stepping closer to his still, silent form, the cold he now radiates leeches into her very skin, and Liz basks in it. With her soul, she caresses him, diminishing the space between their quivering wavelengths until she feels the vibrations slide almost effortlessly into a single, beautiful frequency. Golden eyes instantly rise to meet shining blue.

"You are Death," she says, reaching out to cup his cool, pale face in her hands, "but I love you anyway."

Liz opens her arms to him, and embraces Death with all of her body, mind, and soul.


End file.
